


burning out

by faithandserenity



Category: Arcadia - Stoppard
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2013-05-05
Packaged: 2017-12-10 11:56:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/785796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faithandserenity/pseuds/faithandserenity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As he sleeps, Septimus burns.</p>
            </blockquote>





	burning out

As he sleeps, Septimus burns.

Not quite literally, of course, but he can feel the heat of the flames licking at the skin of his hands, can feel his fingernails shrivel as they plunge through the fire, grasping, clutching at nothing but pure heat.

And then he wakes, drawing in a breath so deep it’s almost a scream, the cold air such a shock to his heat drenched lungs that he chokes for a second, hands scrabbling at his throat. He sits up, the sheets falling to his lap as he scrubs a hand over his face, blinking in the weak light of a pre-dawn sun.

-

It’s past midnight, but still he works, iterating his way past the nightmares that are sure to come just as soon as he closes his eyes. It’s arduous, he doesn’t have the imagination, the way of seeing things that he needs to finish it, but it’s the closest his fingers will ever come to lacing with hers, and so he continues.

-

He goes through methodically, blowing out every candle, pinching every wick, dousing in water the ones who refuse to relinquish their slight glow of heat. He’d find it amusing, even pitiable, if he were any other man, but the livid red snaking its way up his arms tells why for all to see.

When he’s done he fills a bucket with water from the pump, and places it next to the bed, lined up in perfect symmetry with the one next to the door. He lays his slippers next to it, and climbs into bed, twisting a scrap of scorched white cotton between his hands.

-

Just as every night, he sees her, dancing a waltz through the flames, the same look on her face as when he kissed her. He knows what comes next, he’s seen it every night for five years, she catches fire, yellow and red caressing her breast, orange kissing her lips, threading its way through her hair.

-

He scribbles feverishly, sketching out the contours of her face, trying desperately to remember the shape of her nose, whose tip he longed to kiss again and again, peppering hot, open mouthed kisses all over her face.

A tear drop falls on the paper and he brushes it irritably away, smudging the line of her jaw. He traces it gently with his finger, remembering what it felt like when he held it in cupped hands, coaxing kisses from her mouth.

-

He shreds lettuce absentmindedly, feeding strips of it to the tortoise, barely listening to what the man in front of him is saying. He knows that he doesn’t come because he wants to; he pities him; a poor lovelorn fool, left pining for someone he cannot have.

He’s talking of revolution in Greece, but Septimus cannot find it within himself to care, and so continues to feed the lettuce to Plautus.

-

He staggers out of the pub, blood dripping from his nose, and grabs at the brick wall to steady himself. His cravat is askew and there’s beer staining his shirt, but his mind is blessedly blank.

-

He sees her walking the lawns, but this time it isn’t a hallucination, it’s real, her arm linked through her husband’s, her young son held to her hip.

Later on she’s in his bed, writhing beneath him, pressing her lips against his collar bones again and again, his fingers tangled in her hair, cradling her head. He speaks her name in a whisper, like a prayer, a charm, over and over again; _Thomasina, oh Thomasina._  

She holds him while he sleeps, cool hands running across his fevered brow, assuring him that she’s here, she’s alive, he rescued her.

-

Dawn breaks, and he lies alone in his bed, her kisses now but mere memories, when not three hours ago he had been buried so deep within her he had thought they could almost become one.

-

You can’t run the film backwards, and the future will always get something wrong.

And, invariably, the truth is more heart-breaking than the fiction.


End file.
